A Flicker in the Dark(32)

“It’s okay, honey,” she whispered, a tear dripping down her cheek. “I’m not mad.”

“So I grabbed it,” I said, looking back down at the box. “And I opened it.”

“And what did you find inside?” the sheriff asked.

My lips started trembling; I hugged the box closer.

“I don’t want to be a tattle,” I whispered. “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

“We just need to see what’s in the box, Chloe. Nobody’s getting in trouble just yet. Let’s see what’s in the box, and we can go from there.”

I shook my head, the severity of the situation finally settling over me. I never should have showed Mom this box; I never should have said anything. I should have slammed the lid shut and pushed it back into that dusty corner and forgotten all about it. But that’s not what I did.

“Chloe,” he said, sitting up straighter. “This is serious now. Your mother has made a major allegation, and we need to see what’s in that box.”

“I changed my mind,” I said, panicking. “I think I was just confused or something. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“You were friends with Lena Rhodes, weren’t you?”

I bit my tongue, nodded slowly. Word travels fast in a small town.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “She was always nice to me.”

“Well, Chloe, someone murdered that girl.”

“Sheriff,” my mom said, leaning forward. He held his arm out and continued to stare in my direction.

“Someone murdered that girl and dumped her somewhere so terrible, we haven’t even been able to find her yet. We haven’t been able to find her body and return her to her parents. What do you think about that?”

“I think it’s horrible,” I whispered, a tear slipping down my cheek.

“I do, too,” he said. “But that’s not all. When this person was done with Lena, he didn’t stop there. This same person murdered five more girls. And maybe he’ll murder five more before the year is over. So if you know something about who this person may be, we need to know it, Chloe. We need to know it before he does it again.”

“I don’t want to show you anything that could get my dad in trouble,” I said, tears streaming down my cheeks. “I don’t want you to take him away.”

The sheriff settled back into his chair, his eyes sympathetic. He was quiet for a minute before leaning forward and opening his mouth again.

“Even if it could save a life?”



* * *



I glance up at the two men sitting before me now—Detective Thomas and Officer Doyle. They’re in my office, seated in the lounge chairs usually reserved for patients, staring at me. Waiting. Waiting for me to say something, just like Sheriff Dooley had been waiting on me twenty years ago.

“I’m sorry,” I say, sitting up a little straighter in my chair. “I got lost in thought for a second there. Can you repeat the question?”

The men glance at each other before Detective Thomas pushes a photograph across my desk.

“Lacey Deckler,” he says, tapping the image. “Does the name or image ring a bell?”

“Yes,” I say. “Yes, Lacey is a new patient. I saw her Friday afternoon. Judging by the news, I imagine that’s probably why you’re here.”

“That would be correct,” Officer Doyle says.

This is the first time I’ve heard the officer speak and my neck snaps in his direction. I recognize his voice. I’ve heard it before, that raspy, strangled sound. I heard it just this weekend in the cemetery. It’s the same officer who came running over when we found Aubrey’s earring. The same officer who snatched it out of my hand.

“Lacey left your office at around what time Friday afternoon?”

“She, uh, she was my last appointment,” I say, peeling my eyes from Officer Doyle and directing them back to the detective. “So I imagine she left around six thirty.”

“Did you see her leave?”

“Yes,” I say. “Well, no. I saw her leave my office, but I didn’t see her leave the building.”

The officer looks at me quizzically, as if he recognizes me, too.

“So, for all you know, she never left the building?”

“I think it’s safe to assume she left the building,” I say, swallowing my annoyance. “Once you leave the lobby, there isn’t really anywhere left to go but out. There’s a janitor’s closet that’s always locked from the outside and a small bathroom by the front door. That’s it.”

The men nod, seemingly satisfied.

“What did you talk about during your appointment?” the detective asks.

“I can’t tell you that,” I say, shifting in my chair. “The relationship between psychologist and patient is strictly confidential; I don’t share anything my clients tell me within these walls.”

“Even if it could save a life?”

I feel a punch in my chest, like the wind has been knocked straight from my lungs. The missing girls, the police asking questions. It’s too much, too similar. I blink hard, trying to shake the bright light that’s surging through my peripheral vision. For a second, I think I might faint.